The Art of Kissing and Telling
by Gosangoku
Summary: An art that they had perfected long ago. — US/UK drabble.


**t h e  
a r t  
o f  
k i s s i n g  
a n d  
t e l l i n g**

_Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score;  
then to that twenty, add a hundred more:  
a thousand to that hundred: and so kiss on,  
to make that thuosand up a million.  
Treble that million, and when that is done,  
let's kiss afresh, as when we first begun.  
_**- Robert Herrick**

**x.**

They've lost count of the amount of kisses they had exchanged throughout the duration of the past dozen centuries - the times they had manoeuvred their armery to lean awkwardly towards the side to capture their partner's lips; the occasions in which they meandered aimlessly, met in the middle, and kissed like wandering spirits.

Sometimes they forget their age and what they are and get lost in one another, the depths of blue in his eyes drawing Arthur into the endless sky, and the ageless emeralds of the other man's revealed fields and flowers that were everlasting only in those eyes. Whenever they felt the greyscale world beginning to infect them with its dreary ghosts of yester-year, they gazed into one another's twinkling eyes and became lost in the stars and faraway worlds that probably didn't exist but were made for them.

Their kisses varied from spontaneous and passionate to deliberate and romantic, but often it was never just one aspect: it could begin chaste and delve into something far deeper which lasted longer but never long enough, but neither of them minded being late. Their mingling lips and dancing tongues seemed more important than trivial affairs that once meant a lot to them when they didn't have each other.

It was never enough. The prolonged kisses with sparse breaks for oxygen in between expulsions of oxytocin never fulfilled their odd craving for contact. They clung to one another as if they were afraid that they would disappear otherwise, but they never voiced their fears, paranoid of their own paranoia that they were unsure was justified or not. So they poured out all of their feelings into their loving kisses full of unspoken pleas, whilst their letters and spoken words never let go of their thoughts.

It was odd however, they both thought but never said, how they could share their thoughts regarding anyone and anything else aside from each other. Whenever they tried, they faltered; whenever they faltered, they failed. They disguised their anguish and frustration behind smiling masks, but all masks had holes. Their masks were cracked and broken beyond repair after all of their history, with and without each other, of civil wars and world wars and battles they tried to forget. But the scars would never fade no matter how many kisses were littered over the memories.

Their constant performance faded away—along with their fragmented masks—whenever they made love. It began with an impromptu visit, an imputent grin and false words ("_I was just passing by_," Alfred insisted and, before Arthur could roll his eyes or scoff, his lips were captured and the door was shut behind them.) and they ended up gasping and moaning and writhing against the floor, the wall, the bed. Anywhere. Everywhere.

They imposed kisses upon one another, nipping at jaws, biting at necks ("_Will that leave a mark?_" "_Yes. And I want it to. People need to know_.") and trailing butterfly kisses over exposed, scarred flesh. Then they gravitated together again, lips colliding, eyes meeting, skin on skin. Moving, moving, faster, faster, breathe, _I need you_—

They end up gasping for breath, holding each other, but still in need of more. They end up limping for days after and, perhaps it's masochistic, but they like it. They know that it's real and they can feel each other. Even if their emotions are buried deep, at least the physical pain reminds them that they're there.

The others all assumed it was a purely political alliance; they were doing their duty by fulfulling the name _Special Relationship_ to an extreme extent, just as many countries had done in the past. Many could recall times they had shared a bed with the former Empire, how it had been full of ecstasy in the climax but so unattached and impassive. Yet, whenever those liquid green eyes so full of regrets and dwindling hopes became fixated on the face of the one he had always loved the most, the absolute pure _love_ was palpable. If any nation had ever considered the prospect of not possessing emotional capabilities (or hearts, in a metaphorical sense), then those two proved them wrong.

When the name Churchill had given them during the 1900s had been taken away by England's government, most had assumed that they'd return to their usual friendly banter and unresolved sexual tension, but they had been wrong; the fleeting kisses upon greeting each other remained, their hands were still intertwined, and they hardly left the other's side. In spite of the headlines announcing the _Special Relationship_'s completion, they were obviously unwilling to accept it. Perhaps politically it was declared over, but the undercurrents of emotions that fueled their relationship refused to depart.

Francis, with a cruel and oddly sadistic glint in his eyes, sneered and commented that their relationship was based on lust, and it was only right that two undignified, unromantic and unnecessary countries would expel human needs with each other. But instead of drowning in pain and blood as he had done with Francis in 1066, Arthur was drowning in unspoken words and accelerating heartbeats and blue, blue eyes. It was not as if Arthur was a victim; he knew that he had given as good as he had got. For all the pain he received, he produced agony in forms of stealing territory. He was greedy. And he still was even now, even if Alfred assured him he wasn't. He was. Alfred just never noticed it now that Arthur didn't possess colonies or treasure he had stolen from the sea, but he was; he couldn't ever let go of Alfred. He loathed himself for it, in a way, because he just couldn't. When they weren't together, he spent a lot of his time signing documents and accidentally writing _Alfred_ over papers without realising it, or staring out at the moon and whispering the words he couldn't say to the American's face.

Arthur wasn't one for public displays of affection, but for Alfred he made an exception. After struggling and objecting for a while, he eventually gave in and drew his lover into a yearning kiss, gripping his infamous bomber jacket and feeling his broad shoulders beneath that and every time he wondered when they had become so big. Just like Alfred's hands which were once soft and tiny and were now large and calloused and scars covering his hands from events he had long since forgotten.

When it rained, they shared an umbrella, even if they both had one, and kissed beneath it when they had to part ways. When it was hot, Arthur complained, and Alfred kissed him and claimed it was only to shut him up. Throughout each season they utilised the same excuses they had the year before to steal more kisses, and sometimes didn't even provide a reason, the silent confessions swimming in their eyes more than enough to explain themselves.

"Morning, Artie."

Arthur looked up from his book that he had read hundreds of times already to feel warm, chapped lips ghosting over his. Their hands met and their fingers threaded together as he met his lover's mouth and happily returned the kiss, pulling away to offer a small smile.

"Good morning, Alfred."

The other occupants of the room drenched in spring sunshine sighed and took their seats, inadvertently eavesdropping on the lovers' conversation that was in tune with that of a married couple. Some rolled their eyes but nobody commented or rebuked them for their displays anymore as it had grown to be somewhat of a norm. Besides, as they saw the shining eyes and loving smiles that were close enough to touch, nobody could blame them for loving each other anyway. They just wondered when they would finally confess.

Ludwig faltered in the doorway, feeling as if he was intruding on a private moment, and quietly slipped into the room. He jostled his papers and cleared his throat, and the trance broke. With a whispered farewell against Arthur's lips, Alfred took his seat right beside them. Their hands were still intertwined beneath the table, but everybody knew.

"Let's begin."

**x.**

_**Axis Powers Hetalia **_**belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

And this is was spurns from Gosan attempting to write a drabble. I intended for it to be very short as in approximately three to five hundred words, but evidently I am exceptional at exceeding the limit. Whenever I write something with a word limit, I always go over it! It's infuriating. Bugger.

As Blaise Pascal said, "I didn't have time to write you a short letter, so I wrote you a long one instead." It's applicable to me both in terms of letters and stories, although I am terrible at writing letters. I am so incredibly awkward. Nevertheless, I digress; my being socially inept is unrelated.

I made France seem like a complete wanker in this. ;n; I didn't mean to, honestly! I actually quite like France. (Gosan, are you serious? You're English!) I try to depict all countries as having a darker side to them... perhaps because it consoles me about my own other personas. Notwithstanding, I wasn't trying to portray France as a villainous bastard and England as a _**oh help me I am incompetent and cannot stand up for myself despite having had an Empire look at my big innocent eyes and oh please don't put that there even though I obviously want it**_**—**

...Um. I don't like stereotypically seme/uke relationships is basically what I'm saying here. *_**awkward silence**_**!* I'd better be hittin' the ol' dusty trail...**

Anyways, hope you all enjoyed the odd drabble that abuses the word 'kisses'~


End file.
